


And I Love You

by islasands



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Agony, Ecstasy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:10:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ramble through Adam's thoughts as he tries to come to terms with what he can never come to terms with...</p><p>The song is "Nights in White Satin" by The Moody Blues. It just seemed to have the right kind of piercing quality in the chorus to accompany this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Love You

"Nights in White Satin"

 

The Moody Blues

 

  


 

 

Wasn’t that the title of a movie? The agony and the ecstasy? Those words fit together nicely, don’t they. You accept the former because it heightens the latter. Linguistically, at any rate, they look and sound good. Poetical. 

But meaning-wise, if those words don’t come together as a pair then you’re fucked. Ecstasy grows best in the agony of shit. In the manure of bad decisions, bad luck, bad timing. If it’s not rooted in muck, well, ecstasy is a high that quickly reaches saturation point. Like that point when a sweet smelling flower suddenly begins to smell like urine. You can’t take any more and you don’t. 

And agony on its own is like a drought. Nothing grows. There is no harvest. All you can do is want it to end. 

And why this line of thinking? 

My friend who’s a bit of a gardener took me outside to sample the fragrance of the moonflowers that grow around a pagoda thing down her garden. They bloom at night. Only at night. The moon is their sun. They’re white and their petals look like soft crepe paper. There they were, so white against the darkness of their foliage. Their perfume came to meet us. Vaguely lemony. Heady. Sweetly bitter. 

Look, I know my flaws, my insecurities. I know I’m fickle and that my grasp on the importance of reciprocity is often token or self-serving. I know that I want guarantees but don’t necessarily want to give them. I know I want you to promise to always wake up in my arms - but only if they happen to be there when you wake.

And I theme up the movie of my life to match my feelings, not my thoughts. I feel one way. I think another. And no, that doesn’t make me fascinating. Doesn't make me a gripping watch. It makes me a fucker, really. An affectionate fucker. A loyal one. But a fucker nonetheless. It's that observer self that sits on your shoulder and no sooner do you feel something than it says, "Oh. Look. He's feeling sad." And the tears have to be forced out after that. 

And then there is you. Walking towards me in my mind. Like the fragrance of the moonflower. 

I know people think you’re my ray of sunshine, my little Finnish sunflower, full of the seeds of happiness, your face surrounded by a halo of summer. And it’s not true. Not true at all. Not about you, nor about what you mean to me.

In my version of agony and ecstasy, my version of being a bastard who loves to be loved, you’re like that moonflower. Cool and white and perfect in your objectivity. Unmoved by sentiment, uninterested in dissecting motives or predispositions, bored by surface detail. You’re like a thorn in the fucking side of my analytic soul. I tell you all my thoughts and see you paying attention to my eyes, my lips, the movements of my hands. Not my words. 

I sometimes watch you when you aren’t aware of it and something happens inside me that is painful. Piercing. An icicle falls from the eaves of my brain and lands in my heart. Other times you are simply with me. We are together. We plan and talk and laugh and argue and fuck like friends who are lovers.

But then I see you absorbed in doing some task, or I look down from the deck and see you arriving home, walking up the driveway, up the steps, across the patio, or I watch you standing at the edge of the pool preparing to dive, and I feel like I can’t bear something. I don’t know what it is but I can’t bear it. I can’t. It’s too much. 

And I love you. You draw the night out of me, and then set about flowering smack dab in the centre of it, and I simultaneously feel anguish and joy, hope and despair, agony and ecstasy. And I have to lay aside my strong wish to be eternally loved and cherished and lean over to smell a flower instead. A flower that isn’t mine to pick or keep forever or wear. 

Not mine, but mine.

It's a controversy of cognitive dissonance that I try to accept with what I hope is good grace. And sometimes tears. The only ones I don't observe.

And I love you.


End file.
